Married. Traveled. Moved. Knocking back all these adult achievements, one by one.

My things are almost arranged and organized, my kitchen is almost stocked. Peach’s moving anxiety has almost abated, and so has mine. The move went smoothly enough and oh, you are going to hear about how much I love my new apartment, but there’s something about waking up in a different bedroom, man. It makes my mind messy. I wake up in a different bedroom and then I can’t remember what a person does in the morning. I made breakfast, but forgot the coffee. May I repeat: I forgot the coffee. The rest of the day moves on similarly. I can’t run, I can’t cook, I can’t read. I actually don’t even remember ever doing those things, or how other people do these things.

This is probably more than a new bedroom. This is probably what happens when you spend three weeks living life in the immediate. Three weeks of “Today is the day you [fill in the blank].”

Get your hair cut, go to the vineyard and make cupcakes.

Get married.

Take a plane to Boston.

Take a train to Venice.

Figure out where to buy cheapest and best pizza within walking distance of a certain piazza.

Pack the rest of your crap and vacuum the floor 75 times.

Move.

Unpack.

Now my blanks are back to blank. What do I do? What do I do with this one wild and precious life?

Small things feel big. Buying eggs. Making pasta. Reading thirty pages of a book that isn’t Game of Thrones.

And I used to write stuff down, right? On paper?

Some new notebooks for a new apartment.